( let it be known that on this day, like many other days, archie andrews has no flipping clue what he's doing. he stares at his device for a good two minutes ( closer to three ) and gnaws on the inside of his cheek. he's weighing the cons of the anxiety building in him and the pros of not tossing and turning ( see: rubbing himself raw ). he holds the screen against his chest, then rolls over the edge of the bed to rummage for a t-shirt and pants. distinguishing between what's the supplement and what's the rain is impossible. he needs to stop giving his ponchos away to shoulder the burden of sexual frustration.
he should call reggie or betty. that's what the only functioning part of his brain chips in with. archie ignores it. he doesn't want to be lectured, here. he wants to feel better than existing for an hour—good, that's where the bar is. he wants to feel good. not nothing, not fine. good. and if he's going to do be here, why limit himself? why not toss himself into heavy currents? he flails from one extreme to the other.
he leaves the letterman's jacket in his closet, it feels a little too on the nose to parade around in it.
god, he hopes william gave him the right room number. it's not going to be hard to explain why he's standing in the hall, leaning into the doorjamb after knocking, cradling a mug in one hand and chewing at the thumbnail of the other. he doesn't want to deal with fumbling sheepishly through a lie. when the door comes open, his only explanation is, ) I couldn't find a measuring cup.
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( let it be known that on this day, like many other days, archie andrews has no flipping clue what he's doing. he stares at his device for a good two minutes ( closer to three ) and gnaws on the inside of his cheek. he's weighing the cons of the anxiety building in him and the pros of not tossing and turning ( see: rubbing himself raw ). he holds the screen against his chest, then rolls over the edge of the bed to rummage for a t-shirt and pants. distinguishing between what's the supplement and what's the rain is impossible. he needs to stop giving his ponchos away to shoulder the burden of sexual frustration.
he should call reggie or betty. that's what the only functioning part of his brain chips in with. archie ignores it. he doesn't want to be lectured, here. he wants to feel better than existing for an hour—good, that's where the bar is. he wants to feel good. not nothing, not fine. good. and if he's going to do be here, why limit himself? why not toss himself into heavy currents? he flails from one extreme to the other.
he leaves the letterman's jacket in his closet, it feels a little too on the nose to parade around in it.
god, he hopes william gave him the right room number. it's not going to be hard to explain why he's standing in the hall, leaning into the doorjamb after knocking, cradling a mug in one hand and chewing at the thumbnail of the other. he doesn't want to deal with fumbling sheepishly through a lie. when the door comes open, his only explanation is, ) I couldn't find a measuring cup.
( he's not a complete deer-in-headlights. )